


Pop

by Thighgrab



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben's always wearing sunglasses, Defensive Rey, Depressed Ben?, Eventual Smut, F/M, Leia is now June, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey acts like she doesn't know what she wants but she knows what she wants, Rey is so sweaty all the time, Rey plays Tennis, Strangers to Lovers, at a health club, kind of, they need to just hug each other, they're both angsty shits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-12 09:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20562131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thighgrab/pseuds/Thighgrab
Summary: Ben sits with people he loathes once a week. But he doesn't listen to them talk,He listens to the girl who plays tennis in the court next to them.





	1. A tennis god

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I don't know what I'm doing, I just want to make a love story. Also, not beta read at all so sorry for any poop stains you may encounter. Cover your nose and move along.

“Well let me tell you ladies this: Hershel should be on top of Bianca with something this serious. Pool boys don’t just stay over for lunch every week... without a certain smell beginning to raise,” 

She grabs her nose with the tips of her fingers, squeezing gently, and raises her left hands’ index finger, pointing out toward the other women, 

“It’s fishy.” 

Ben usually doesn’t tune in during these conversations, he’s taken up watching the tables around his own, and seeing if there is anyone else who feels as though they’re sitting in a pile of their own shit, baking under the July sun as he does. He hasn’t seen anyone yet. 

Though, he always likes to catch what Juliet says. All of the women tend to use the same verbiage, spew the same garbage, find the same flaws in whichever person they talk about. But Juliet, Juliet will always likes to add something special. Constantly attuned to the theatrics of it all.

She especially enjoys bringing as much attention to the nose job she had done about 5 years ago as she possibly can. “She’s nosey,” Juliet will say, gently patting the side of her nose. Using homophones in banter, you’re so witty Juliet. “I mean, she acts like such a pig,” her purple nail pressing the tip of her nose up, exposing her nostrils. Voila! She looks like a pig. It’s truly groundbreaking stuff. 

There are 6 other women who aren’t quite as dramatic, but Ben finds them just as infuriating, that sit at their table. One is his mother, June. 

June’s jet black pixie cut is suffocated by the Nike sports visor she never forgets to wear. All the women wear some type of athletic attire, but never partake in you know, the athletics. They sit in the health club’s restaurant and drink mimosas or bloody marys and talk from eleven in the morning to two in the afternoon. Sometimes three if Ben’s unlucky that week. Sometimes one of them might be feeling "ethnic" and order a mojito. They like to have fun. They always choose a table outside, where it’s more open and more people can see how much fun they’re having.

Ben drove up once, at the invitation of his mother, to spend the afternoon with her and her friends. It then became a regularly scheduled event. Once a week, Benjamin would join June and her six friends in their get together. At first he didn’t realize how much he would hate it by only his third trip in, but when he calls his mother the fourth week letting her know he wouldn’t be able to make it because his car was acting up fictitiously, her wails notify him he’s made his bed, and he must lie in it. 

“Ben, please, you’re bringing on a migraine,” Ben hears June wince in pain over the speakerphone, “Please just call an Uber, I don’t have time for this. Since when does your car,” she pauses and wines, “I really can’t Benjamin. You need to call an Uber. Send me the confirmation of the ride when you order it, please.” Her last words are muffled, as though her hands are covering her face. 

“Ok, mom.” Ben almost whispers into the microphone.

“Oh thank you sweetie. That means so much to me. See you in 30.” 

Ben arrives in his car and not an Uber. His mother doesn’t seem to notice or care.

He knows she thinks her friends are as big of idiots as he _knows_ they are, and she needs him there as a sort of grounding post. He’s fine with being that for her. He just wishes it didn’t come with such painful trips to the theatre; a hardly original play starring The Great Juliet and her Babbling Band of Blockheads. 

Ben studiously watches the waiter across the terrace look for water glasses to refill. Quit while you’re ahead buddy, Ben thinks, none of these women are here to drink water. He lifts his brows behind his sunglasses as he sees the waiter turn on their heels back inside when they realize Ben's point. 

Then a grunt. 

_AUGH!_

Then a pop of ball hitting the ground. 

“Oh in the name of all that is good, help us all.” Mary-Louise remarks. 

Geniveve is next:

“Not today, I really can’t deal with her today. Everything with Maddon and his tutor this week, I’m here to relax.” 

“It’s so inconsiderate, seriously.” Ponytail says. Ben can never remember if her name is Belinda or Bianca, so he calls her Ponytail in his head. Wait, it can’t be Bianca, they were just talking about Bianca and the pool boy. 

_AUGH!_

Pop. 

An eruption of snide comments bubble out of the group he sits with. He was leaning back in the white aluminum garden chair as he always does, normally never possessing enough energy to sit all the way even if inappropriate, but sits up attentively when the noises from the neighboring tennis court continue. His favorite part of the day has just begun. 

“Could she make anymore of a manly grunt, I mean seriously. We get it, Serena.” 

He loves when the girl on the court starts her tennis practice. He loves that someone in his life, behind some fucking green fencing and flowering, someone he has never seen before, irritates the shit out of the shittiest people in his life. He thinks of the girl as some type of angel, or a god. His tennis god. 

_AUGH!_

Pop. 

“Serena, _blah_, talk about manly.” 

Ben slides his chair backwards and swiftly stands up. He overestimates his strength and the chair makes a scraping noise against the floor louder than he anticipated. But, alas, 

He doesn’t give a fuck. 

The seven women all go silent and bring their attention up to the man who stands at the head of the table staring down at them, his face adorning not an ounce of emotion. A few gape, as Ben hasn’t made a lick of engagement during these meetups in the past 7 weeks. His mother though, after a quick glance up at him, looks back down at her Mai Tai, and twirls the straw around with her finger, before taking a long sip, unfazed. Ben tilts his head slightly at them. 

He has yet,

To give a fuck. 

Without a word, he slips from behind the table, putting both his hands into his trouser pockets, and walks from the table, 

Toward the court. 

He thinks he might just pay his tennis god a little visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Something Big](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6ROvkl9gNY) by Burt Bacharach
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Ben does not tolerate Serena Williams slander!


	2. The eleven year old

On the pathway that led from the lunching terrace to what Ben assumed to be a single tennis court, he found there were two enclosures. Both separated by an extension of the pathway he was following. 

His angelic noise was coming from the left; a smaller looking fenced in court, with greenery interwoven to block any view to the inside. His footsteps were heavy and his body swayed, as though he were exhausted, a little boy being told to go to his room. He walked toward the court on his right instead. 

He reached its large metal fenced door and pushed it open by its knob. His hands returned to his pocket as he scanned the double court enclosure he had chosen. He took a deep breath in and closed his eyes as he stood against the edge of the courts. His solidarity started soothing then became bland, the darkness from the inside of his eyelids mocking him. _You think you’ve got some major shit going on in your life? You need to close your eyes in the middle of an empty tennis court and reflect on life? Open your fucking eyes._ He obeyed. 

He took his time and laced around both of the courts, sat under the small tent that separated the playing grounds. What was he avoiding? Did he mean to brace himself for another interaction that could just let him down as most of them have before? 

Or did he even care at all to what would come next? 

The grunting and popping continued from the court next door, and Ben continued listening. Eventually, the ball stopped its pop and the dull sound of a net hissed after each grunt. One time, two times, three times. And after the fourth, a loud aggravated roar. Silence. Before his brain could register it, Ben's feet had already taken him back out, through the gate, and onto the median pathway once again. He didn’t hesitate before finding the entrance to the smaller court on the left. He opened the door. 

I guess it was that he just didn’t care. 

At first Ben saw nothing but an older, smaller single clay court within this enclosure. He noticed a double leveled seating stand off to the opposite side of the court. Then, a standing metal basket, that presumably once held balls but was now empty, and woman’s body laid out on the floor of the court next to the legs of the basket. On her feet, sprawled to the sides, two small white sneakers with a large black _N_ on the side. They were badly beaten. She run those over with a semi truck? Jesus. She wore a pair of white shorts that went to her knees and stuck to her skin like it was its second layer, with a fitted spandex t shirt above it, also white. All white, huh? An angel truly. Ben dragged his feet, with no intention of making himself unknown. His size could never be ignored past the age of 15, so why attempt now? He took himself to the short metal bench, enough to hold about 5 of him across on both levels, and sat on the far edge. The far edge from the body that, for all he knew, lay dead on the floor 50 feet away from him. Once he sat, Ben looked at the side of the net in front of him. There was a piece of rubber ripped. A thread seemed to have popped in the middle of the net but it stuck upwards not outwards. Ben found that peculiar. 

“Hello.” 

Ben’s eyes drifted to the body, who apparently was not dead, but was now sitting up, their upper body supported by the palm of their hands spread out behind them. She was white, but tanned across the skin that was exposed, brown hair pulled back into two braided pigtails. She was sweating, badly, face puffed up in a deep shade of red. She began to bring herself up by bending her knees, and slowly pushing herself to a stand. Her eyes had migrated to the clay ground. Ben realizes he didn’t answer her. 

Her body shifts uncomfortably and she tries to find something to do with her hands, eventually using her fingers to tug at her shorts. She takes a deep breath and begins to walk toward the edge of the court. 

At first, Ben thinks she is leaving him. Then he sees her pick up a ball that had rolled over to fenced walls. 

She then goes to another spot where three other balls are. She throws all four balls in the direction of her ball basket, and then collects a few more before tossing them as she did with the first four. 

Once the left side of the net is free of balls, the girl returns back to her basket, lifts the legs up to turn them into a handle, and begins to press the bottom of the basket to the balls on the floor. One by one, the balls would pop right back in from in between the wires. The girl seemed focused on gathering her balls but Ben would occasionally see her look up at him, followed by her quickly averting her gaze when realizing he’s watching her intently without a hint of shame. 

When she finishes, he is surprised to see she doesn’t grab her racket and backpack that lay on the ground and bolt to the door. She unfolds the handles of the basket and they become legs again. She grabs her racket, fiddles with the strings, then sets it down once again and goes to grab a water bottle out of her bag. 

Ben feels a warm sensation bloom in his chest watching her stagger around the court, not sure of what to do about his presence. He watches her as she squirts the water from the tip of the bottle into her mouth, an excess dripping down her chin and onto the court. He watches as she rubs her chin, then her upper lip, then scratches her jaw. He watches as she avoids his eyes at all costs, looking at either the ground or the sky. 

Ben sucks in his lips and returns his eyes to the net. He remembers when he would sit and watch his father and uncle play tennis is their own court as a child. His Uncle Luke would pretend to run into the net and flip over it. Ben thought it was the funniest thing anyone has ever done. He then wondered where Uncle Luke was. 

Then a pop. 

A ball flies into his sight, across the top of the net and lands just before the service line, before bouncing away. The speed of the ball requires Ben to look at the server and wait for her next one, just to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. This girls like, what, eleven years old? How can she be serving a ball to that caliber? 

Ok fine, she’s clearly not eleven. But still. 

The girl tucks an imaginary piece of hair behind her ear and awkwardly glances over to Ben. She quickly grabs a ball from her basket, and bounces it a couple times. Once, twice, three times. 

Then the ball is gently raised. It’s beginning to be tossed into the air, when it comes bouncing back down at the absence of a racket coming up to hit it. The server stands with her racket hanging from her hands with a limp wrist, and stands staring at Ben as though she had just said something to him but he had missed it. 

“Sorry, what?” Ben says to the girl. 

“I’m just, sorry I don’t really know the politics of this gym, or club or whatever it’s called. I just,” she seems to trying to find the right words, “Do I know you? Do people watch strangers practice, I mean, is that common here? Or are you just like, an actual insane person who’s like, gonna follow me home and dismember me in my house?” She smiles painfully, raising her eyebrow at the end of her spiel, either embarrassed by the word vomit or just genuinely concerned of his intentions. 

“Oh, I- I don’t know.” He answers. Or he attempts. He notices she asked him quite a few questions, one of them weighing in on the subject of whether he intends to mutilate her body after murdering her, and all he had said was ‘I don’t know’. 

Ben, you’re a stand up communicator and we all commend you on it, truly. 

“Well I’m…” He tries to find the words, jerking his hands as he’s hunched over on the bench. “Yeah.” 

She stares at him with a face that expresses nothing but pure astonishment. “Sir, are you going to kill me?” She says again slowly, like she were asking a child. She seems to have gained some confidence now that she believes she is dealing with an imbecile. “No,” Ben begins, “I’m sorry I was just over there,” he points in the direction of the club restaurant, the girl turns to look, “And I heard you practicing. I’m just here to watch.” 

“Do you play tennis?”

“No.”

She blinks at him. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out, so she closes it. Beginning again, she serves a couple more balls but does not glance in Ben’s direction anymore. At first she hide her grunt, but after a few balls, some hitting the net, she grows in intensity, and starts her grunting up once again.

Ben can’t believe he’s finally seeing the source of his favorite weekend tune, this up close and personal. It kind of feels good for some reason, like he has unlocked a special part in a video game he’d been trying to crack for weeks. 

After 4 balls in a row hit the net on her practice serves, she closes her eyes frustratingly and crunches her fist. 

“It’s your toss. You're throwing the ball too far in front of you.” Ben says.

The girl’s head turns swiftly to him.

“Excuse me.” Her chin tilts inwards in an attempt to tilt her head even more while looking at him. 

“Yeah, your throws are sloppy. If your throws are sloppy then it doesn’t matter how great your form is, or how powerful you hit through, it’s going to hit the net.”

“I’m sorry, but I throw just fine. Did you come in here to critique me with your no years of experience with tennis? Thanks, but I’m fine.” She spits. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend you,” Ben begins, “I mean your spin and speed on the ball is great, fantastic actually, but I mean… you are hitting the net for a reason.” 

“Hey, fuck off! I’ve already served like, 50 balls, I’m just getting tired, I-- I toss my balls just fine okay! I know not to toss a ball too far in front of me, I just… Get a life, what are you? My coach, I don’t even know you.” Anger is in her words but her face and body just seem uncomfortable. “Can you just… can you just go please?” Her eyes waiver from around the ground before landing directly on Ben’s eyes. She breathes heavily in and out of her nose and grounds herself confidently, in an attempt to look more intimidating. 

Ben shrugs. “Yeah, it’s cool. Sorry.” He pushes himself up. Maybe she is just tired. His constant nonchalant attitude never appealed to his family and coworkers, but he had never realized how ill fitting it is with helping someone in their sport. He pushes himself up to the front of the benches and walks toward the court door. He looks up on his way to meet her eyes watching him and brings them back down to the ground, the roles now reversed. 

When he reaches the door, he glances up at her once more. She’s stood with wide eyes picking at her fingertips, as though she’s surprised he actually got up to leave. 

He doesn’t hear her serve a single ball by the time he gets to his car to drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Would You?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4bgaOPZWWw) by Richard Swift
> 
> How many times will I use the word "truly" in this story? Let's find out. I think I'm trying to embody my inner Bobby BottleService.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The gum wrapper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was in a -no motivation to write coma- but I think animal's [The office life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656736/chapters/49055348) woke me up. 
> 
> Thank you, queen. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Rey’s thumb traced over the desk’s stapler for what seems like the hundredth time, as she listened to Finnegan’s concerning co worker of the week rant. This week it was Marsha, the cycling instructor, who has gotten so many angrily targeted Yelp reviews that Finnegan is seemingly having to explain to every prospective member that no, Marsha the Tuesday cycling instructor will not verbally harass you after your spinning class. 

Sometimes Rey’s finger would run under the top of the stapler, where the staples would eject, and she thought of what it would feel like if she pushed down while her finger was there, staple puncturing her skin. 

“Are you listening to me, or are you thinking of stapling your finger?” Finnegan says, Rey looking up at him mentioning the exact thought she just had. 

“Yes and yes.”

Rey sighs and throws her hand away from the red stapler dramatically, looking at Finnegan slumped back in his desk chair. She’s stood leaning over the counter of Finnegan’s desk. He has a love-hate relationship with his position as the health clubs Membership Consultant. Sometimes when he goes on his complaining sprees Rey thinks he secretly just enjoys the drama. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t let that kid cross.” Rey mumbles before taking then releasing a deep breath through her nose. 

“Oh my god, how are you still talking about that?”

Every Saturday morning Finnegan would pick up Rey to carpool to the health club instead of her taking the bus. She liked when he drove her because it meant she would have to force herself to stay his entire shift to practice. 

That morning Finnegan let Rey drive his car. 

“He looked at me with his little fucking eyes, and he was like: When can I cross the street Rey? Can I cross the street now? Will you let me cross the street? And he could cross the street, he just didn’t know because he was a little boy and he was scared. And I was like yes little boy, you can go, it would be the perfect time to cross right now because no other car will let you. But then I lied, I lied to his face, because I didn’t let him cross and I just went. And I spit in his face and drove off.” 

“It’s funny how literally none of that happened.” Finnegan deadpans, not looking at Rey but at his fingers as he picks under his nails. 

“But it did, it did happen.” 

“I’m never letting you drive again.” 

About two hours before Finnegan’s shift ended, Rey always gave herself time to shower, change, and talk with him at his desk. She likes him because he deals with her neuroses and never complains. 

She had changed into track pants and a t-shirt, and her hair was still dripping water onto the floor from her shower. 

Finnegan grunted when he noticed, “You know there is always a puddle in front of my desk when we leave. When Georgie told me he has to mop it up every night I was mortified.”

“Hey, if I described a very distinct looking member of this club do you think you will be able to tell me who they were?” Rey asked with apprehension. She didn’t know why she was asking, but she totally did know at the same time. 

“Hit me, baby.” He still hasn’t looked up from when he brought his attention back to his nails.

“Well,” Rey hesitates, “He’s a very large man, maybe late 20’s, early 30’s. Dark long hair, prominent nose, a lot beauty marks on his face, some down his neck.” Rey stops, slightly taken aback when expressing aloud how much she remembered of the him. 

She continues, 

“But large in not like a heavyset way, but large in like he takes up a lot of room because he seems 6 foot 5 and is built like a brick house of muscle and…” Rey struggles to form her words correctly, “His-- his body is just filled out nicely and it would almost look kind of silly if he were to, say, be sitting on a small bench, because he’s so large you know… or something, um, like that.” Rey finishes, feeling her face warm up under her blush. 

Finnegan doesn’t seem to notice her rambling or embarrassment as he casually lets a long pause in before saying: “Oh, you’re probably talking about Ben.”

“Ben?” She questions softly. 

“Yeah, does he wear those black Wayfarers all the time? White guy?” 

“Well I only saw him once. But, yes he was wearing those on his head, I think.” She didn’t think, she knew.

“Yeah, you’re probably talking about Ben. What, you gotta crush?” Finnegan is clearly more intrigued as he picks his eyes up from his nails to Rey, and leans forward onto the desk with interest. 

“What? No, I don’t even know him. I’ve only seen him once. You know, it was so weird he just came to the court and he like talked to me. I don’t know.” Rey didn’t know why she was getting shy talking about this man she had such a brief interaction with a week ago. Why wasn’t she telling Finnegan about the interaction as it was? Why did she feel like it was a dirty secret?

“Yeah, his mom’s one of the women in that group I was talking about the other week. The group that drinks on the patio and gave Arturo all that shit for mixing up their drink order on his second fucking week of working. Yeah, his mom is the one whose eyes are never in focus.”

Rey hums with wide eyes to indicate she’s listening and wants Finnegan to continue. 

And he does, “Ben started coming to all their Saturday brunches like, 2 months ago, but Arturo told me he looks extremely suicidal during them all. Never says a word, and Arturo just thought he was a douchebag but I told him that Ben seemed super sweet.”

When Finnegan seemingly ended his thought there, Rey wanted no part of it. 

“Well, why have you talked to him? What has he done to make you think he’s sweet?”

Finnegan puffs out his lips and blows out some air like he’s blowing a raspberry, but a baby one. 

“He always says hello to all the workers he passes when he walks through. You know they’re shy little,” Finnegan tucks his elbows in and raises his hand to demonstrate a reserved wave, “Hellos but they seem genuinely kind.”

Rey chews her bottom lip listening. 

“One time I saw him pick up a gum wrapper that he saw on the ground and throw it away in the trash can that was, like, so far out of his way. I mean everyone was passing it. I remember I even saw it and passed it. But he didn’t, he picked it up.” 

“Woah, step aside Greta Thunberg, Ben threw away a gum wrapper.” 

“Hey, why are you being cruel, I thought you were interested in him.”

“I’m not interested, I was just wondering if you knew him, that’s all.” 

Finnegan squints at her and gives her a skeptical _“mhm”_, before noticing a client walking up from behind Rey. He gives Rey a directional nod of the head, the designated nod to motion her to move aside while he deals with what’s approaching. 

Rey wipes the water some of her hair dripped onto the top of the counter, and walks to her right off to free up counter space. She looks to the floor in thought as she hears her friend go into monologue to help the woman. 

_Ben,_

Rey thinks,

_His name is Ben._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKQdW9WcXq8) by Dolly Parton
> 
> More of Rey and Ben in the next chapter, don't-cha-worry! Was gonna have this be one long chapter but decided to split it into two. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	4. Wednesday night

Today was not going well for Rey. 

Her day at work was strenuous to say the least. At the same elementary school for the past 4 years, it was basically just an internship she had kept from while she was a student. After getting her degree, she just hadn’t found the motivation to ask for a rightful promotion.

But motivation can be found scarce in a place of doubt. 

Today, her ESE’s class’s mainstream teacher gave her favorite student shit for not doing well on the spelling test. But seriously, who gives a group of 8 year olds the words exhibition and quadrangle. When has anyone on the fucking planet ever used the word quadrangle. 

Throughout a day of students biting and resisting her, moments of silence during lunch, on the corner of the playground, she dreamed of saying goodbye to Jenenne, thanking her for the ride home, dragging her weary bones inside, throwing herself on her bed and pulling up the covers to absorb her in sleep. 

But she knew she couldn’t. 

She had done that Monday and Tuesday. 

People don’t get better at their sport by napping everyday after work. So she brought her tennis bag with her, knowing it would chasten Rey to going to the club afterwards. 

When 3 o'clock came, Rey said her goodbye to Paulina, who waved her finger tips at her and smiled from behind her desk, and she pulled her body out the door of her classroom. She closed her eyes slowly, standing outside the door, taking in a deep breath to steady herself.

She felt the weight of her body in her feet for the moment. 

She ordered herself a Lyft ride, knowing she couldn’t bring herself to walk the 5 blocks to the nearest bus station.

On most weekdays the older tennis instructor would have an opening to practice with Rey for fun. 

They started doing it a few months ago when Rey‘s dad stopped showing. 

The instructor always mumbled his name so Rey would call him _You._

Hey, _You!_

Oh, it’s _You!_

He was just as scatterbrained as Rey so neither them really cared that she had spent 6 months with him without saying his name aloud. You had a training session scheduled by the time Rey got to their health club, so she was alone to boil in her frustrations. 

Her serve was sloppy again today. 

So, she focused on her toss. 

It had been 11 days since a man named Ben told her to focus on her toss. 

So, she focused on her toss. 

By the time Rey couldn’t wipe the sweat off her slippery hands a single more time, she allowed herself to retire for the night. 

Her phone read 7:16 by the time she was able to throw it in her bag, zipping it closed. Nausea was immediate at the thought of turning into the locker room to shower rather than turning to front doors leading to the parking lot. So Rey walked her sweaty ass through the lobby to those front doors. 

Weaving the landscaping as her head pounded in exhaustion, Rey’s exuberant exhale by the time the air conditioned lobby hit her face felt just so _dramatically necessary._

The contrast of cool air to her hot wet face alerted Rey to how sweaty and red she must be. The thought of her dreadful appearance came and went as she had no one to impress at 7:30pm on a Wednesday in a health club lobby. 

As she walked past Finnegan’s desk, she smiled briefly at the man who sat there in Finnegan’s place, knowing Finnegan never works a closing shift on a weekday. 

Straightening her head to look forward, it takes her a few seconds to comprehend what she sees before her.

The sight of a mop of black hair sitting atop a large frame standing farther down the lobby. 

She stops fully in her tracks, seeing Ben,

Listening to some retail associate talk enthusiastically to him. 

He’s in work attire, and Rey immediately thinks he just got off of work. Does he work here? No, of course not, Finnegan would have known that. Where does he work? Why is he here on Wednesday night talking to a woman selling protein powders? 

None of those questions should mean anything to Rey. Would you have those questions about a complete stranger if they were in his place? But for some reason they did matter. 

Instantly, Rey’s sore feet took her forward in his direction, eventually making it to his side. 

Ben didn’t look quite interested in the sales pitch he seemed to be receiving, and when Rey stopped right to his left side, he turned his head to her robotically, his lower lip slightly dropping.

The woman continued to talk but Rey and Ben continued to ignore the end of her sentence, just purely looking at each other, barely a foot apart. 

Eventually Rey noticed the abrupt quiet. The woman had stopped her speil when noticing Ben had his attention captured by another. Rey glanced at the woman, whose teeth were tight and eyebrows knotted in confusion. Rey looked back at Ben.

She took it upon herself to begin, with a sharp inhale, 

“H-- How, How come you’re here?” She didn’t mean to start off this way, but she couldn’t fight the desire to know why this man she had met briefly was once again in her presence. 

Ben continued to stare. 

“I mean,” Rey wanted to correct herself, “Um, it’s funny to see you again.”

Ben doesn’t answer, a soft expression on his face looking down at her. 

“It’s random, huh.” Rey answers herself. “I come here after work. I mean not everyday, this is the first time this week because I’ve been lazy but,” 

She felt like she was digging herself into a hole. She adjusts the bags on her shoulder.

“Uh, but yeah, it’s funny that _you’re_ also here, on a uh, Wednesday. Night?” Her sentence ended as if it were a question, asking if he was going to answer her or not. Rey may have continued talking to the answerless man all night if he then didn’t have a change of heart:

“I just came from work too.” Ben says.

Rey’s wide eyes are looking up at the answerless man, who finally answered her, her mouth slightly open. She’s to ask about his job, but her brain stops her. 

The sales women had disappeared. 

Instead, Rey’s brow furrowed, 

“How did you know what was wrong with my serve? You said you’ve never played tennis yet you were so sure on critiquing me.” 

“I didn’t say I never played tennis. I said I don’t play.”

“So you’ve played before?” 

“No.”

Rey blinks up at him. She instantly remembers the sweat that must be soaking her tomato-like complexion.

Neither seem to notice how close they are standing to each other, with the absolute no need to. Ben’s body is now turned slightly more towards Rey. 

She finally gets out: “Are you fucking with me?”

Ben doesn’t seem phased by the shift in conversation, but instead adjusts himself with more confidence. “Do you have a trainer? Anyone to help you out?”

Rey scoffs, “I’m not sure if I should take that as insulting.” 

“I’m sorry. It’s... strange... to me how taken aback you are by a simple method instruction.”

“Well I literally work at a school so, no, I’m not ‘taken aback by method instruction’, it’s literally, you know, _what I do._ I just, I think you can understand the fact that I was a little confused as to why someone who has never played tennis was, first of all watching me, and second of all, telling me what to do.”

“Have you had a coach?” Ben tries again, tucking in his chin at her and narrowing his eyes. 

“Yes. My dad used to-- well yes, I did, but it’s none of your business.”

“Did it help?”

Rey couldn’t believe his audacity.

“Yes my father helped, of cours--”

“No, my comment. On the tossing. Did it help? The serve.”

Rey was at a loss of words. She wanted to answer, either that it didn’t help and he had no idea what he was walking about or that it did help and she was grateful for his small tip. 

Instead, she did what a child would: 

Huffing, “You’re so annoying, do you know that?” She shakes her head. 

Thankfully they were close as she sees the small smile lifting his mouth, she could have easily missed. 

He could have easily taken that as, _Yes it did help._

Rey couldn’t have anymore of it. 

“Ok, you know what? Goodnight, sir. Have fun at your brunches or female tennis player stalking or whatever it is you do here.” Rey spats out, quickly stepping around him and finally towards the doors. 

On her way out, against all better judgement, she looks back over her shoulder to him. He’s stood in the same spot, watching her walk off with the same soft look he started the conversation with. When their eyes meet, Rey whips her head back towards the doors, pushing them outwards, jogging lightly to the street. 

She walks the block over to catch her bus, not once taking out her phone to check what time the next one will arrive. It comes eventually, Rey can’t tell how much time has passed as she had been just staring into space, thinking of what just occurred. 

Once securing a seat, she shoves her bags underneath her, and sits back. 

Finally smiling lightly to herself when it felt safe. 

On Saturday, early afternoon, when she arrives to her usual small empty court, 

Ben is there. Waiting for her.

Sitting on the small bench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Watch What Happens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQx0pOVdMMo) by Chris Montez


End file.
